


dirty flirty

by allmyloyaldead (van1lla_v1lla1n)



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Ambiguous Gender Reader, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Oral Sex, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Snowballing, Undernegotiated Kink, kind of?, s2 ep7 "Return", y/n assumed to be shorter than 6’2” sorry tall ppl, y/n thrives in chaos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:08:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28714767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/van1lla_v1lla1n/pseuds/allmyloyaldead
Summary: You're at a dinner party at Greg's when his boss shows up. Greg's been pretending not to be obsessed with him for ages, and your attempts to flirt with Greg are obviously making his boss jealous. Tensions are high, and not just because of whatever their argument was about. You decide to have a little fun.
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Other(s), Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans, Tom Wambsgans/Other(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 20
Collections: The Missing Hours: 3–5 a.m. on the night of March 12





	dirty flirty

**Author's Note:**

> somewhat dubious consent here. I'll put a more specific description of that in the endnotes if you'd like more information before reading on.

Some admittedly handsome middle-aged man shows up at Greg’s, and it’s immediately obvious there’s something going on between the two of them. “It’s just a talking shop for renewal,” you hear Greg tell him at the door, and you roll your eyes. He deserves whatever mockery the man throws at him after that.

He’s adorable, Greg, but too much of a space cadet to really hold your interest. And anyway he’s always talking about some dude named Tom—it’s pretty clear he’s not interested in anybody else. You met Greg at some bullshit networking event a while ago, and you haven't been able to stop thinking about those six feet and seven inches of bony lank ever since. The dude's massive, frankly, and all you really want is a chance at that dick. Which is why you’re here, at this ridiculous _talking shop for renewal_. 

Greg’s new haircut helps—he looks like an adult, now, instead of a teenager on growth hormones. He’s telling the new guy about the haircut— _soothing_ , he says; he just wanted somebody to touch his head? All he had to do was ask.

The two of them talk in argumentative whispers, Greg’s plaintive whines coming through occasionally, and you catch glimpses of the other man’s raised eyebrow, his strident posture. Greg walks away and the guy literally snaps at him, beckons him back with the wave of a finger. The whole thing feels super sexually charged. Who wags their finger at somebody like that, unless they’ve fucked or want to?

Greg brings the guy into the living room, and you pretend to be engaged with the others’ chatter, like you haven’t been listening to his argument.

“This is Tom,” he says. _Ah_. “My boss,” he says. And— _hmm_. He sounds nervous, agitated.

“Howdy, renewal partners,” Tom says, and his smile is tight, fake, his eyes bright, like he's angry and tired of it. Greg winces, looks at the floor to hide his embarrassment as he sits down next to you.

The tension is delicious. Chaotic horny. It’s like somebody dropped a sex pollen bomb in the middle of a political debate, but nobody else seems to notice. Greg sits with his knees clamped together, stealing glances at Tom. And Tom perches prim in a chair across from the two of you, his gaze on you nearly voyeuristic.

Tom tells an awful joke; it’s not really funny but you lean forward and set your hand on Greg’s thigh as you laugh, watch Tom’s eyebrow rise, in interest or accusation. His smile seems realer now though—he’s pleased you laughed. You pat Greg’s thigh, slide your hand in toward his inseam before you take it back, and he blushes.

When Greg gets up to go to the kitchen, you and Tom both stand up at the same time to follow him. Tom’s brow furrows; you wink and he sits back down in a huff. In the kitchen you touch Greg’s elbow and he jumps, sees you and looks relieved.

“Think I was your boss?” you say, leaning back against the counter to face him, and he shakes his head no and then yes and laughs.

“Is that the dude who swallowed his own load that one time?” you ask.

“Yeah, like—you remember that?” Like a greyhound puppy, so delighted to be paid any attention. You want to pinch his cheeks, dig your fingers into his dimples, bite his mouth until he whines. You know he'd whine; you've heard his frustrated little whimpers when he's struggling with a jar lid and you'd be lying if you claimed you hadn't replayed them in your head over and over, working yourself up.

“Sure do,” you say. You pry the beer from his hand, letting your fingers brush, and take a sip, smile sweet and hand it back. It's like the hint of a kiss, drinking after someone, and the phallic implication of the bottle is too good to pass up, even if it's subliminal for Greg. You can never tell if his innocence is an act. You’re standing nearly chest to chest now, staring up at him—everyone stares _up_ at Greg—and Tom comes in, clears his throat obnoxiously.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he says, sounding zero percent apologetic. “Didn’t mean to, ah, interrupt your little tryst.”

Greg starts to sputter out some kind of denial, but you touch his arm, look at Tom, say, “I’m certain, in fact, that you did.” You grin like you meant the opposite, and Tom blinks.

You slide your hand down from Greg’s rolled-up sleeve to his wrist and say, “Anyway we’ll get a room next time. How rude to ignore the guests, huh, Greg?” As if you’re any less of a guest than Tom is. It’s a cheap move, but it works—Tom’s shoulders hunch, jealous, and you watch him work to even out his face, straighten out his posture. You slip past him in the doorway, turning your shoulders so you don’t bump him, stepping unnecessarily close. You smell his cologne, expensive but slightly too strong, and you wonder if he can smell your laundry detergent, your skin underneath it.

Moments later they come back together, looking irritable and guilty as fuck, though they hadn’t had nearly enough time to get up to much of anything after you left. They sit where they’d been before, Greg next to you, Tom across, and you shift closer to Greg as he settles in, letting your thighs touch just enough to transfer a little warmth. He looks embarrassed, eyebrows almost worried when he looks over at Tom, but he doesn’t pull away from you—shifts to open his chest toward you when you slip your hand under his elbow to rub soft and slow at the smooth skin inside his forearm.

The conversation continues without you—Tom gets in his little jabs, his biting, smart remarks, and Greg looks apologetic for him. There’s something terribly domestic about the two of them. They’re like that awful awkward couple you invite to a dinner party once, only once, and then never again, because if you ever even bring them up everyone groans.

When everyone finally leaves, you tug at Greg’s collar in his entryway, let your gaze linger on his mouth, and say, “Mind if I stay a bit longer?” And of course he nods, smiles down at you a little hopefully, and you tug at his shirt again, trying to pull his face down to your level. Just then Tom peeks around the corner and says, “Ah, the two lovebirds. Can’t keep your hands off each other for five fucking minutes, huh?”

“If you’d stop, like, inserting yourself into my space, maybe it wouldn’t seem so obvious,” Greg says, and you feel as surprised as Tom looks that Greg was capable of saying anything quite so aggressive. But god, this is unbearably delicious—Tom is so fucking jealous and either he doesn’t realize it or he’s trying to pass it off as offense, irritation. You’re not sure why he’s still here, if he’s so upset about all this, or even really why he’s here in the first place. It didn’t seem like Greg had invited him.

“I’m gonna make a drink,” you say. “Tom, can I make you something?” Might as well butter him up a little, if he’s going to be hanging around anyway. He shadows you into Greg’s kitchen; Greg doesn’t. You make two drinks the same, stand close when you hand one glass to Tom, look up at him while he tries it.

“So the yuppie fuck can mix a decent drink,” he says.

You lean up—does Waystar only hire imbeciles over six-two?—tug on his belt buckle, and say, “The yuppie fuck can mix all kinds of things.”

You leave him standing there, find Greg on the couch, take a sip of your drink and set it down. “Could you show me your bathroom?” you ask, and Greg smiles politely, unfolds himself to stand up and show you down the hall. You grin at Tom through the door to the kitchen as you pass and he scowls back at you.

Greg looks down demure as he opens the door for you, and you step in close, catching his hips, and wait until he meets your eye. You nod toward the bathroom, whisper, “Want to?” He looks nervous down the empty hall, and you step back toward the bathroom, holding his gaze and pulling him with you by the hand. He resists only slightly, open mouthed, until you lean up to whisper in his ear, “Please?” and he shudders and nods and follows, closing the door behind him. You work his belt open as he fumbles for the light switch, and smile up at him, blinking in the brightness when he finds it. You crowd him back against the door.

“We’ll be quick,” you say, soft against his mouth, and you kiss him deep and bite that full lower lip and he melts under your hands. His skin is hot as you slip your hands up under his shirt and down, down from his ribs to his waist and under thin fabric to his hipbones, the tops of his thighs, and in. You open your eyes to watch his face as you trace his hardening erection, ease it out as it thickens in your hand. He whimpers quietly as you close your fist around it, that first full touch, and you shush soft against his throat and then you bite and he vibrates against you, thrusting into your grip. You take his wrist with your free hand and kiss his palm and lay it over his mouth, but you still hear him whispering “fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” as you settle down on your knees.

You hear Tom walking down the hall as you take Greg’s cock into your mouth, and when Tom calls out, looking for the two of you, you look up at Greg, shake your head slow, _don’t_ , letting the tilt slide your tongue over the head of his cock. He keeps his hand over his mouth, closes his eyes, and Tom walks away. You sink down, taking Greg’s cock full in your mouth, salivating at the fullness, at his responsiveness, and feeling victorious over hapless Tom tromping around just outside, probably all worked up in his jealousy and irritation.

You lick up the underside of Greg’s cock and your hands want skin, so you slide them up the absurd length of his thighs to his hips, and grip there to coax him into your mouth.

“Greg?” Tom says outside the door, and Greg’s hips jerk.

He looks down at you, mouth open in indecision, and stutters: “Just a minute, Tom—just—" and if it wasn’t already obvious what was happening in here, Greg’s breathless voice has definitely given you away now.

“What the fuck?” Tom says, and you suck hard at the head of Greg’s cock and hear a whimper catch in his throat. “Greg?” Tom says, and Greg shudders, thrusting shallow into your mouth. You hold him still by the hips, slide your lips off his cock, stare up at him as you open your mouth to speak. He shakes his head frantically, like you’re the one giving the two of you away, as you say, “Say it again, Tom.”

“Christ,” Tom says. “Say what? What the fuck is this?”

You lick up the slit of Greg’s cock, tasting his precum; he closes his eyes. “Say his name again,” you say.

“Greg?” Tom says, incredulous, and Greg covers his face, but he’s impossibly hard in your mouth.

“Greg, what— are you _fucking_ in there, Greg? What the fuck do you think this is? You exhibitionist little fuck. Greg, I swear to god when you get out here—“

Tom rants, and you try to look up at Greg encouragingly but he’s still covering his face, so you suck and lick and tug at his hips until he starts to thrust into your mouth, and you hum around him, not bothering to be quiet now.

“Seriously, Greg, what the fuck,” Tom says, and Greg drops one hand to hold the back of your head and you smile as much as you can with the Jolly Green Giant fucking your face.

You’d thought Tom would’ve given up by now, but if anything he’s gotten more annoyed, and his voice is almost a growl against the door when he says “Greg” one last time and Greg chokes as he thrusts deep into your mouth and comes. You pull back, gripping his hipbones, to catch the cum in your mouth, and when his hips finally still, you stand up, nuzzle his neck, your mouth full of hot cum and your lips too covered in spit for a kiss, and open the door.

Tom looks aghast, his cheeks reddened and his eyes a watery angry blue. You tow him down to you by the shirtfront and he lets you, surprised, and you kiss him and open your mouth and it’s messy as fuck, trying to spit thick cum into his mouth when he’s too tall and won’t stand still, so you settle once you’ve got most of it in, chase it with your tongue, and it almost seems like he likes it, the way he grips your upper arms and leans into you. You pull back out of breath, swipe at the cum dripping out of his mouth with your thumb, press it back between his lips, and he licks it clean. You sweep your other hand through his hair, ruffle it up, loosen his collar, and he could almost be sexy this way, if he weren't so uptight.

“You should let somebody mess you up more often,” you say. “Maybe it’d chill you out a little.” You kiss him again, just for good measure, and because you’re certain your mouth tastes like Greg’s cock and you want your spit and Greg’s sweat and cum all over Tom’s pathetic jealous face. You trace down his fly with your fingers as you bite his thin lower lip, hoping you leave it swollen and sexy for Greg, and smile when you feel Tom’s dick hard in his pants.

“Unfortunately, this mouth is all fucked out,” you say, and Greg chokes standing next to you, looking adorably embarrassed with his clothes all askew, shirt half tucked, an unmistakable post-orgasmic blush on his cheeks. You wink at him and go on, looking back at Tom: “But I think I know somebody who’d love to have your dick in his mouth.”

You leave them standing there, wondering if they’ll finally get the fuck on with it, and wash your face at the kitchen sink. You should wait till you get home to get yourself off, but it really would be miserable, sitting on the train with this throbbing ache between your legs. You listen, undo your pants slow, and when you hear a low groan from the hall you start to touch yourself.

It shouldn’t be this easy, but you’ve daydreamed about Greg’s dick for ages, and you can still feel the weight of it on your tongue, still taste his skin. The tension between him and his boss is catching, and you’re aching with the pride of having stacked the kindling for them to finally burn. You hear Greg whimper, muffled, and you feel your orgasm coming up fast, hurried on by the idea that they could walk in any moment, even more by the knowledge that they won’t, that they’ve already forgotten you’re there.

**Author's Note:**

> oral sex is consensual but y/n character puts greg's cum in tom's mouth without any verbal or nonverbal consent.


End file.
